


vignettes in the dark

by yaskiers



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Soft Geralt of Rivia, but they do exist - Freeform, more hurt than comfort ill be honest, non human jaskier, not that he'll acknowledge them, slices of life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-01
Updated: 2020-07-01
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:00:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25012042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yaskiers/pseuds/yaskiers
Summary: Five nights in the lives of Geralt of Rivia and Jaskier, as the years went by.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 15
Kudos: 54





	vignettes in the dark

**Author's Note:**

> me, staring witcher canon in the eye: the sign cant stop me because i cant read
> 
> (song quotes from "fair" by the amazing devil)

Geralt awoke to the familiar sound of Jaskier stirring next to him. It was a regular occurrence- the bard tended to have random bursts of inspiration during the late hours, which would lead him to sit on the floor near the bed with a candle flickering nearby, while he scribbled furiously on the pad of paper he kept with him always- and usually Geralt fell asleep soon after. 

But instead of slipping quietly (not quietly enough to escape a Witcher’s notice, but not quite loudly, either) out of the bed, Jaskier rolled over to face Geralt and nudged him in the arm. 

“Geralt” he whispered, his voice soft but insistent. “I know you’re awake, don’t even try to deny it.” Geralt opened his eyes,  _ fuck _ , he was tired, and just looked at the bard. Jaskier looked right back. 

“What,” was all Geralt deemed in response. 

“Eat with me,” Jaskier said as he pulled his bag up to rummage through it. With anyone else, this would have been more than a little odd. Though Geralt may have had little dealings with humanity in recent years (except for Jaskier, but Jaskier was an exception to practically every certainty Geralt had lived with, so he didn’t count) he was still sure that randomly waking up to eat in the middle of the night was not normal. 

Then again, Jaskier had never been a normal human. Geralt was still trying to find proof that he had fae heritage, or elven blood  _ at the very least _ , but that was neither here nor there. It seemed, sometimes, that Jaskier’s purpose was to puzzle Geralt. 

They had been traveling together for a few seasons, now, and it seemed that every time Geralt believed he had the bard figured out, Jaskier would turn around and do something confusing. 

So perhaps it wasn’t too out of the blue to see Jaskier handing him one of the baker’s honey cakes in the middle of the night, the hint of a smile playing across his lips. 

“You woke me,” Geralt said, only partially to confirm that he understood this correctly. “to eat honey cakes with you?” He still accepted the honey cake, which caused a knowing smile. Food which he genuinely enjoyed to eat was rare enough, and he would not waste it so easily.

“Well, for starters, you woke at the same time as I, so you can’t blame me for that, dearest Witcher.” Jaskier said, his tone light and insufferably fond as he licked honey from his fingertips. “As for the honey cakes, maybe I wanted an excuse to be with you, is all.” 

“Hmm,” Geralt replied, quite eloquently for someone who found it suddenly hard to breathe, despite knowing that nothing in their environment had truly changed.

Jaskier’s expression was different in the darkness somehow, softer, and Geralt was struck with a harsh surge of  _ something _ . He couldn’t quite name it, but if he had to, it might have been a bit more than the fondness he tried so hard to deny.

He accepted the honey cake perhaps more gently than he had thought himself capable of, and wondered exactly when his bard had become someone worth staying up for, and why he didn’t mind the thought.

  
  
  


(In the morning, when Geralt awoke for the second time to crumbs on the sheets and Jaskier’s head laying on his shoulder as his body pressed next to him, he thought that he might have found his answer)

  
  


_ *** _

  
  


_ 'Cause darling I was born to press my head between your shoulder blades _

_ At night when light is fading _

  
  
  


_ *** _

It was unusual for Geralt to sleep deeply enough that he wouldn’t wake on his own. One of the skills he had perfected at Kaer Morhen was sleeping lightly, if at all. Witchers had to be alert at all times, of course. 

It did happen, though. Not often, but sometimes the potions had a more pronounced effect, which left him disturbingly helpless in their wake. 

Whenever Jaskier noticed this was happening, when Geralt would blink rapidly and his head would tilt in the way that it always did when he was getting a migraine, he would gracefully make their excuses and all but rush Geralt to their room.

After making sure that there were no injuries left untreated (while Geralt knew that they would heal on their own, it was still… surprisingly pleasant somehow, to be shown care in a way that he never would have expected), Jaskier would bathe him, as he had so many times before. On these nights, it was different. Gentler, maybe. 

Geralt didn’t quite have the words for it.

He would be pushed into the bed, warm in a way that had nothing to do with the flames burning in the fireplace, and settle with his head held in Jaskier’s hands (soft, but with calluses- a bard through and through) while nimble fingers carded through his hair, undoing the knots and tangles with the expertise of someone who knew what they were doing. 

He would sleep.

Sometimes, he would sleep all through the night, and wake up to find Jaskier next to him, his hand resting on Geralt’s chest, over his heart, their bodies close together, comforting.

Other times, he would wake up before the sun had even set, and he would lie there until the bard returned, restless and yet not quite able to bring himself to move.

It had been the latter, that night. 

Another one of the countless contracts which all seemed to blur together, so much blood on his hands and so many screams ringing in his ears. It had been another Doppler, and the potions had not helped the fact that he despised Dopplers. 

Geralt had trudged back to the inn where he had left Jaskier (for once, because he was just ill enough to give Geralt a reason to make him stay), covered in blood and mud and other substances which he would rather not name. 

Jaskier had looked up at his entrance, and had instantly seemed to know it would be one of those nights, judging by the questioning expression which he had worn. At Geralt’s confirming nod, the bard quickly ended the song with a bow, a wink, and a cheeky laugh, grabbing his lute and the coins in front of him and crossing the room to join Geralt in a few quick strides. 

“What on earth have you done to yourself now, dear heart?” Jaskier asked, his fond tone belying the harsh question. 

“Hmm.” Geralt answered. Jaskier smiled at him, but his eyes held a hint of worry that Geralt suddenly wished he could dispel. 

“Well, you can’t be too close to death, if you still have the energy to hmm at me.” 

“Hmm.” He just barely won the battle against the smile threatening his carefully cultivated expression. 

“Come on then, Geralt. Let’s get you cleaned up.” 

  
  


He didn’t remember much, after that, beyond the gentle fingers and warm water and the flaring pain in his head. 

He emerged from his daze to find himself lying on the inn’s bed with Jaskier beside him, scribbling away on his notepad, the blankets pooled around them comfortably, though not restrictively. 

Geralt shifted slightly, trying to find a more comfortable position. Jaskier jumped and turned to look at him, dropping his quill and paper gently to the floor near the bed. 

“Geralt!” he exclaimed loudly, sounding unreasonably relieved. “You’re awake, that’s good, I was almost worried for a moment there, you seemed a bit,” he gestured with his hand in the air. “out of it.” 

“My head,” Geralt said eloquently. He wasn’t sure how to describe the sharp pain bothering him, but fortunately Jaskier seemed to understand. 

“Oh,” the bard said softly. He turned to blow out the candles nearby, while one of his hands came to rest gently on Geralt’s arm. The touch was grounding, somehow.

Jaskier turned back to him and wrapped his free arm around Geralt’s waist. 

“‘S that better?” he whispered. Geralt nodded, before regretting it immediately when the pain grew stronger once again. 

“Go to sleep, Geralt. I’ll be here when you wake up.” 

It shouldn’t have been as comforting as it was, Geralt thought. It was true though, he was exhausted, and hadn’t slept for a little over two days. 

  
  


(And if, as he slipped into a dream which for once was not a nightmare, he felt a press of lips against his head and a whisper of  _ i love you _ then it must have been a trick of his mind)

_ *** _

_ It’s what my heart just yearns to say _

_ In ways that can’t be said _

_ *** _

It’s been years, since the inn and the whisper he had never been quite certain of. Now, Jaskier’s declarations of love are common, in the way that declarations of love can be. When Geralt hands him his cloak during the colder months, when he brings him a new glass of ale, not to mention whenever he adds a bit more detail to his accounts of his latest contract. 

_ Have I told you that I love you today, dear heart? _

It was driving Geralt slightly mad, not that he would admit it. 

As they were, sitting under the stars as the fire crackled in the crisp night air, Geralt listened to Jaskier strum his lute and tried to focus on the vampire contract he had been petitioned with. It sounded as if the vampire was targeting children as they went to and from a well on the outskirts of the land, outside of the protection of their parents and neighbors.

He was usually unaffected by the things he saw, as was the way of Witchers, and yet he still dreaded what he would find when he finally hunted the vampire down. Perhaps it was Jaskier’s influence. 

Geralt only noticed the rain when thunder rumbled in the distance, though he felt it moments later. Instantly, he could feel his muscles tense. He had always hated the rain. 

Not only because of the mud and the dirt, the way that his clothes would soak through or even the way that his hair would tangle.

It reminded him of the night before the Trials. It had been years ago, of course. Decades, actually. And yet it felt that no matter how many years would pass, Geralt would never truly forget the Trials. Nor the night before.

There had been a thunderstorm, just as the one that night, though harsher, perhaps. The rain had fallen heavily, the wind blowing harshly at the windows, a chill in the air. He had been scared, Geralt thought. He had been human, and he had been scared. 

“G-Geralt?” It was Jaskier’s voice which brought him out of his memories. He looked towards his bard, noting the way that his frame shook slightly in the cold and wind. He never did bring a proper cloak, the idiot. 

Geralt stood, sheathing his sword and pocketing the sharpening stone in a futile effort to keep it dry. Jaskier rose with him, clutching his lute. 

He looked smaller, in that moment, though he was truly taller than Geralt himself. His hair was plastered to his forehead, his eyes bright. 

“Here,” he said shortly, pulling up the flap of their tent, which he had thankfully had the foresight to set up. 

Jaskier skirted past him, heading straight for their bedrolls. He pulled one cloth from his own pack and one from Geralt’s, tossing it to him easily. They huddled together, after they were dry (or mostly, at least. Geralt’s hair was almost past his waist now, and it took an unreasonable amount of time to dry), as the wind howled like wolves and the rain poured harshly. 

Geralt could tell from the way that Jaskier played nervously with his hands that he wasn’t the only one with experiences that the rain brought up, experiences left more easily forgotten. 

“I don’t suppose you want to talk about it?” Talk about it? Geralt barely knew how to think about it.

“I’ll take that expression as a no, then, shall I?” 

Thunder rumbled once again and Jaskier shivered, though not from the cold, Geralt suspected. 

He pressed just the slightest bit into Jaskier’s side, enough for the bard to understand and press closer, leaning as far into Geralt as he could without falling over. His head rested on Geralt’s shoulder, and it maybe should have bothered him, as every other touch seemed to. It didn’t. 

The rain continued to pour, but they were safe in their closeness. Content. 

  
  


(When Jaskier fell asleep, his head still resting on Geralt’s shoulder, and Geralt’s only thought was to wonder how it was possible to become so fond of someone, Geralt knew he was fucked)

_ *** _

_ And it’s this life that we’ve created _

_ Inundated with the fated thought of you _

_ And if you asked me to, if you asked me I would lose it all _

_ *** _

Geralt’s descent of the mountain was slow. Perhaps slower than it ought to have been. He couldn’t help it, though. Every once in a while he would stop, waiting for Jaskier to complain about his boots or grumble about the water.

But Jaskier wasn’t here. Just him. Alone, with only Roach. 

It was his fault, of course. 

He knew, logically, that his fate was no one’s fault but his own. The djinn, the banquet, the Child Surprise- they had all ended with his own choices. Maybe his fate would have been different if he had never met Jaskier. But the one thing he knew for certain was that there was no path of fate without Jaskier in which he could be happy. 

He was following Jaskier’s trail, now. Yennefer was long gone, and he knew that if she saw his face in the coming seasons it would not end well for him. She needed time, and he could respect that, at the very least. 

Jaskier, however, was owed an apology. Geralt knew better than anyone what would happen if Jaskier was left alone in the aftermath of something like this. He would isolate himself, and blame himself, no matter who the fault truly lay with. 

No matter if the fault lay with Geralt. 

  
  


He found Jaskier curled up under a tree, covered in his doublet with his lute leaning next to him. He looked vulnerable, and it seemed for a moment that all Geralt could do was stare. 

Roach nudged him, and he took that as his sign to move. 

Usually it was easy, he would simply lay his own bedroll next to Jaskier’s and lie there next to him, until one of them settled in the other’s arms. 

He doubted he could do that, now. He sat, instead, his back to the tree that Jaskier lay under, next to Jaskier’s head. 

Though he could have woken him, of course, he didn’t. Jaskier could use the rest, at the very least. 

It took until the sun was just starting to rise for Jaskier to stir, his eyes fluttering open and looking up at Geralt. He stared for a moment, before scrambling backwards, holding his lute to him like a lifeline. 

“Geralt! Oh, I- well, that is to say, what on earth are you doing here?” 

“I’m sorry.” Geralt said simply. He doubted that anything more would be useful, at the moment, and flowery words had always been more Jaskier’s specialty.

“You’re... sorry?” Jaskier repeated, his tone disbelieving. “For what, I wonder? For yelling at me? Come now Geralt, you’ve done that a hundred times before with no apology. For blaming me? For throwing me away? For wishing that we had never met?” 

There were tears in his eyes, Geralt noticed, as ice poured through his veins. He wondered if he had ever hated himself as much as he did in that moment. Probably not. 

“For everything.” He replied, wishing once again that he wasn’t so useless with words, that he had even a fraction of Jaskier’s skill with words, if only to finally tell him how he truly felt. “For  _ everything _ , Jaskier. I- Fuck. I’ve never wished that we’d never met, not once, I swear.”

Jaskier stared at him, like he had never seen him before. Then he stood, still clutching the lute, and backed away slightly, turning towards the path. 

“How long until you change your mind? How long until you realize that you did mean it, how  _ long- _ ” He broke off, and glared at the ground. “I won’t do this to myself again, I won’t.” The words sounded like a promise, one that hurt Geralt with every word like a badly healed stab wound. 

Jaskier turned fully, and started towards the path. Before Geralt truly knew what he was doing, he grabbed Jaskier’s wrist (lightly, he could never hurt his bard, never truly, never again) and held it back. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt said, his voice sounding foreign even to him. “ _ Jask _ , please, I was wrong, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it- I  _ couldn’t _ ,” Jaskier turned to look back at him, glancing down at his wrist, though he made no move to pull away. 

“Do you promise?” He asked instead, and his voice was so small that Geralt could do nothing but pull him close, and hold him.

“I promise,  _ I promise _ .”

  
  


(It was a promise he kept)

  
  


_ *** _

_ "I’ve waited oh so long for you to come" _

_ And as the stars above them hum and hear them _

  
  


_ *** _

It was night, when Geralt of Rivia died. 

One of those nights when the stars were brightest, when the air was warm in the summer’s heat. It would have been a night for Jaskier to sing softly by the fire, for Geralt to sit next to him, for kisses under the moonlight and happiness that Geralt could have never imagined for himself. 

It could have been all of those things, if he hadn’t met two Dopplers on his way back from gathering firewood. If he hadn’t been stabbed, not once or twice, but three times. 

If he wasn’t slowly bleeding out, his blood covering everything around him in a sea of red. The earth, his armor, Jaskier’s hands and clothes and face. 

_ Jaskier _ . Oh, how it hurt to see his eyes filled with tears, to feel his frantic hands trying to fix the damage. 

They both knew Geralt wouldn’t survive this. 

“Geralt, Geralt  _ please _ you can’t go, you can’t, it’s not fair, it’s not  _ fair _ -” He reached for one of Jaskier’s hands (stained with his blood, was it really so red?) and held it, holding it like a lifeline, and maybe it was. 

“ _ Jask _ ,” Geralt said, his voice already weak. It was only a matter of time, now, and they both knew it. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I love you, love you so much I never knew how to say it, but,” he coughed, wet and horrible and he could feel Jaskier flinch as much as he saw it. “I should have tried anyways, I love you so much you stupid brilliant gorgeous bard. I love you Julian, Jaskier, whoever you were and will be.” 

Jaskier choked on a sob, clutching Geralt’s hand and gently stroking his hair with the other. 

“Oh you stupid, lovely Witcher, that was almost  _ poetic _ -” 

“Well, I had to learn something from you in these decades.” He said it with a hint of a smile playing across his lips, bloody though they were. 

With energy that he didn’t quite have, he brought his free hand up to pull Jaskier gently down towards him, so their foreheads were touching and they were mere inches apart, a mockery of the kisses they had exchanged only hours before. 

“Good-”

“Don’t you  _ dare _ say goodbye Geralt, this isn’t goodbye, it can’t be-”

“Can’t be quiet, even on my deathbed, bard?” He couldn’t tell which of them was crying, anymore. Both, maybe.

“Don’t joke about it-  _ Geralt _ , please, I-” 

“I love you, Jaskier, never forget. Please.” If he had the time to think about it, he would have thought it almost fitting, that it was with his final breath that he finally begged. For Jaskier to never forget his love, for Jaskier to remember that this  _ wasn’t his fault _ . Yes, Geralt would have gladly pleaded a thousand times over, Witcher Code be damned, to make sure that Jaskier would be happy again. 

Everything was starting to get blurry, and he couldn’t hear much anymore. Odd, to think that his mutations failed him in the end. 

Maybe he failed himself.

No, he had failed Jaskier.

It was night, when Geralt of Rivia died in Jaskier’s arms, whose screams were ignored by the gods.

  
  


(Jaskier stayed there, for how long he did not know. The only thing he knew was that it was supposed to be him. He was supposed to go first. 

He had failed Geralt)

  
  


_ *** _

"It’s not fair, it's not fair how much I love you

It’s not fair 'cause you make me ache, you bastard,"

**Author's Note:**

> i am back on my angst we love to see it :)
> 
> uhhh toss a kudos & comment to ur author, oh readers of plenty?
> 
> (also say hi on tumblr or twitter @trissifer!!)


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